Neatness.

This video clip makes me chuckle. Heartily. Each and every time I view it. It may be because Lenny the nerdy nature man is just so clever, or it may be because his favorite phrase resonates to the very core of my Aspen-loving being:

"How neat is that? 

…That's pretty neat!"

My life is neat. It's not just nifty neat, it's tidy neat, too. Everything ever has always had its own little home, and its room within a home. I had boxes that held smaller boxes, and the items stashed inside those boxes did not just nestle into their homes in a haphazard mishmash; rather, they had neatly arranged cubicles and suites into which they were carefully organized and re-organized. After elder sister Jennifer taught me all about serial numbers on US currency, cash was arranged in my wallet not only by face value, but also by the 10-digit alphanumeric code printed on each bill.

My sisters and I had many Legos between the five of us. I LOVE(D) Legos. When I re-evaluate our Lego playtime, however, I realize that a vast majority of our time was spent sorting the blocks into our storage toolbox. I can't remember how many times we dumped out ALL the Legos on the floor so that we could sort them by shape, size, color, thickness, design, age, density… 

We like neat. I like neat. 

My things have always had a place. A niche to belong. A box that contains them. They fit in their spots, and don't move about. I know exactly where they are, and where they'll be. I can take them out and use them, and put them back when I'm finished. I can organize them by shape and size and thickness. I can categorize them and label them, noting exact specifications.

My sister Julie taught me a children's song she learned on a mission trip to Belize a while back. It goes something like this:

"If I had a big white box to put my Jesus in, 

I'd take Him out and *kiss kiss kiss* and put Him back again!"

He fits perfectly. After years of taking Him out and *kiss kiss kiss*ing, I know exactly which box He fits into. I've categorized Him according to my shelving needs, and can slide Him onto His special shelf between my other lovely possessions. He is mine; I'm His, I suppose – when I let Him out of the box, that is. 

Problem is, my God doesn't fit in a box. 

Once upon a time, there was another box. It was a beautiful box, gilded with gold, and made by expert craftsmen according to detailed instructions; instructions given by God Himself. People everywhere knew about the box – people of the country, foreigners, friends, and enemies. People everywhere knew what was stashed inside the box, as well as what they could and could not do with the box. After a few years and generations had passed, however, people forgot that the box was a symbol of God's presence, not a container of it. They carried the box around, thinking they carried God and His omnipotence. They stashed Him in houses and fields and byways. Finally, God sent a clear message – see II Samuel 6 – that they had it all wrong.

My God doesn't fit in a box. He's not constrained by walls and tops and bottoms. He doesn't fit fabricated containers.

My God isn't neat. I can't simply apply God-ness to select things and not to others. He doesn't stay within the lines I've drawn. 

My God is no genie to be summoned. He can't be bottled. There's another children's song I know well:

"Jesus' love is a-bubblin' over! Hallelujah!" 

Like a root beer float, he fills to the brim and spills over, flooding everything around, inundating it with Himself. 

Dealing with a God like mine isn't neat. You'll get messy, and sticky, and nothing in your life will remain untouched. You'll be covered from head to toe. And everyone will notice.

Ready for life outside the box?

(Visit the One Place website to listen to the sermon by Pastor Dave Ferguson that inspired this post)